Chapter 95

Coban’s POV

She had the audacity to ask.

“What did you dream about, Coban?” she whispered, voice trembling, yet steady enough to push me on it.

The words slipped through my skull like a hot blade as I stared at the cell door, my back to her, as my mind raced to recap the dream.

The belt.

The pain.

The look on his face as he ‘taught me a lesson’.

My back stiffened instantly, shoulders rising with the weight of memories I’d buried so deep that even the silence of a prison cell couldn’t keep them chained.

“What happened to you?” she pressed, softer this time, like her concern could attempt to untangle the barbed wire I’d wrapped around myself.

Her voice cracked something in me, something I couldn’t allow to shatter completely.

My father.

Two words that should’ve rotted out of my vocabulary but couldn’t. Not when he made it his life mission to keep tabs on me. To control me. To know every move I make.

It was words that still clawed at me, still held me by the fucking throat like I was a boy again, and little did she know it had only been hours ago that he was last here…

Paying me a visit as he usually did.

Acting as a reminder that he still knew exactly what was going on in my life, even from the outside.

He came here to see me…

To ask questions about her…

About my Bella.

Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong!

“My father,” I spat, realising she was waiting for an answer, for an explanation, as the venom dripped from every syllable and my fists curled into tight balls of anger.

I didn’t need to see her face to know how wide her eyes went, how her chest stuttered with fear or pity; I wasn’t sure which one I hated more either.

Then she asked the one question that made my skin crawl…

“Did your father hurt you too?”

Too.

That word lit me on fire.

As though we were supposed to bond over the fact that our fathers beat us?!

My head snapped, fury boiling to the surface so fast I almost blacked out again. “That’s none of your fucking business, is it?!” I barked, the sound ricocheting off the cold cell walls.

And there it was, that same wide-eyed stare, that same sharp inhale she always gave me when I cut her too deep.

She thought she was actually capable of peeling me open, but I wasn’t about to bleed for her.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

I wasn’t weak! I didn’t need some little girl coddling me!

I’d ripped her open once, forced her to spit out her secrets. I’d demanded to know who painted her cheek with bruises, made her relive the sting of her bastard father’s hand. She’d given me the truth because I’d pushed her too far to withhold it.

And now here she was, foolish little Margot, daring to turn the mirror on me? As if I would break and release all of my secrets as easily as she had?

No!

She thought she could handle it.

Handle this place.

Handle me?

She thought she wanted to know the ugly in me?

No!

She had no fucking clue what it meant to carry my scars. To be burdened with the Santorelli name!

She mumbled an apology, fumbling with her words, and it only made my head pound harder.

“You just what?” I roared, flinging my arms out, pacing like a goddamn caged wolf. “D’you think you’re my fucking therapist now? You think this would help to fix me?! I just nearly killed you! Why aren’t you locked in the bathroom crying about it like you usually would?!”

Why was she still on that bed? Why was she still here, staring at me with a raw throat and damp lashes like I deserved anything but her hatred after almost taking her life?

I couldn’t stomach it.

I wasn’t some normal guy out on the streets who’d made a mistake.

Hasn’t she pieced it together yet? Figured out what I was more than capable of?

I was a killer.

I could kill her in seconds if she pushed me far enough!

“Stop fucking pushing me!” I snapped again, my voice cracking around the edges this time, betraying too much.

My knuckles burned, the skin split, flesh raw, dripping red onto the carpet.

I’d pounded that wall until my hand screamed, but the pain hadn’t dulled a damn thing.

And then… she looked at me.

Not with terror. Not with disgust. But with concern.

Her lips parted and her voice broke through, fragile yet steady:

“Coban… your hand is…”

My head jerked toward her, eyes narrowing.

“Is there something fucking wrong with you?!” I spat, pointing the rage right at her because I couldn’t stand the tenderness in her tone. Couldn’t stand her pretending my bloody hand was the worst thing in this room right now.

“N–No it’s just… it looks bad and…” she stuttered, shrinking under my stare, but still – even still – trying to fucking care for me.

What the fuck was wrong with her?!

Didn’t she get it? This wasn’t a place for care.

For mercy.

Yet there she was, too pure, too innocent, sitting on that damn bed after I almost stole her life with my bare hands.

Her forgiveness burned worse than her tears ever did.

“Margot…” I said, slow this time, the rage simmering instead of boiling, but my pulse still hammered in my ears.

Her eyes snapped up to me, wide and fragile. “Y–Yes?”

I raised my hand, the same one still dripping blood down my wrist, and pointed at the door.

“Go sit in the bathroom until I tell you to come out. I’m about to lose my fucking shit with you.” My voice was low.

Even.

Dangerous.

She froze, then scrambled, the mattress jolting under her as she raced for the bathroom door.

The click of the lock echoed louder than her footsteps.

And then I was alone.

Finally!

Alone with my bleeding hand, my burning temper, and the phantom feel of her neck still under my heavy grip.

I pressed my back to the wall and slid down until I hit the floor, dragging my torn knuckles along the carpet just to feel the hiss of pain that it caused…

I should’ve felt relief that I’d sent her away.

I couldn’t hurt her now.

But all I felt was hollow.

And furious…

Furious at her for caring. Furious at myself for wanting it. Furious that no matter how much I raged, how much I tried to prove to her that I was a monster, she still looked at me like I was worth saving…

What would it take to break her?

I clenched my jaw, eyes burning black as the thought repeated like a curse.

What would it take to make her finally see me for what I was?

Not a project.

Not a man.

Not someone who could be fixed.

Just a fucking nightmare she should’ve run from the second she had the chance…